The dress feels too small. It isn’t but my breasts are pushing over of the top and the waist is tight. I half expect Mr. Gretzky to tell me to change back into my T-shirt and shorts, but he barely looks at me before throwing the bag over my head and leading me to the food room. Scrambled eggs and buttered toast are waiting for me. At home I was never allowed bread unless Mom was away and even then, Zia Teresa bought expensive sourdough. My toast is plain old sandwich bread. The kind that comes in a bag. It’s incredible.

“Who cooks my food?” I ask Mr. Gretzky. “Can I thank them?”

He ignores me. Five minutes later I’m back in the cage. A week ago, if you’d told me my biggest issue with being kidnapped would be the boredom, I would have said you were crazy. But it is. With nothing to do, my problems cluster around me like mean birds, pecking and squawking.

“Zia,” I whisper. “Please help?”

I’m scared she won’t answer, that her voice has abandoned me like everything else, but then it comes.

Get up, bella.

I get to my feet, feeling clumsy and overexposed in my red dress. “What should I do?”

What do you usually do when you’re bored?

I smile. I know exactly what to do. I’m amazed I didn’t think of it before.

It takes twenty minutes to run through my warm-up scales and then I sing. I sing Adele. I sing The Beatles. I sing Kate Bush. I sing Edith Pilaf. I sing sitting down. I sing pacing the cage. I sing until my voice goes husky and then I keep going. As the hours pass, the sensation of being watched grows stronger, but I don’t care.

Singing is easier than talking. I find strength in the repetition of it, the rise and fall of my voice. The pull of my abdomen. The emotions you can pour into lyrics and behind them. Singing is the easiest way to be me.

Eventually my voice gives out, but it’s okay. I already know what to do next. I take off my flat shoes and practice ballet. There isn’t enough room to dance but using the cage bars as a handrail, I move from position to position, humming Swan Lake. Soon my skin is glowing, and my mind is blissfully empty. When bad thoughts push in, I push them back, re-focusing on the positions. Mr. Parker might have forced me into it, and I might have the wrong body and be stupid, but ballet has made me strong. I’m going to dance every day I’m down here.

I’m practicing dégagé combinations when the basement door bangs open. I freeze in place, one hand on the bars holding me prisoner. It’s not Mr. Gretzky. The silhouette in the doorway is too large.

A thrill runs down my spine. I know who it is. The only person I want to see even less than I want to be held in captivity. Boots pound on the metal stairs and the basement door melts back into darkness. His voice scrapes out from the shadows. “Keep going.”